The Scent of Her
by GeekLoveFan
Summary: Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it. -Vladimir Nabokov
1. Chapter 1

"_Nothing revives the past so completely as a __smell__ that was once associated with it.__" –Vladimir Nabokov_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs smelled her before he saw or heard her. He was standing at his workbench, carefully sharpening a scratch awl when a soft, familiar scent wafted over the usually-overpowering smell of sawdust that was ever-present in his basement. He took a deep breath and put down the awl, leaning heavily on his hands as he bent over the workbench. He reached without looking for the Mason jar of bourbon and took a quick swig before setting his jaw and staring at the wall in front of him. "What can I do you for, Jen?" he asked roughly, the barest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

It had been only a week since she had shocked the hell out of him, standing gracefully from the front row of seats in MTAC and turning fluidly to greet him, smirk all over her face. He had been so taken aback that it had taken him a few moments to register her scent as it slammed into him. When it had finally hit him, he had been both staggered by the force with which the pain came flooding back, and impressed that he had managed to form some sort of coherent greeting through the ache.

The week since had been an odd juxtaposition of perdition and nirvana. On the one hand, the pain of losing her—of being left, he mentally corrected—had been brought to the forefront once again, opening wounds that he had thought long since closed. Every time he was within ten feet of her, his senses were assaulted by the perfume that he had once loved so well. Beautiful, it was called, if memory served him. The scent of it had once brought him happiness; now, it was a slap in the face, a reminder of that which was no longer his. But on the other hand, he couldn't help but remember, as he watched her when she wasn't looking, what a good thing they'd had. When he was able to push the pain away long enough to remember the good times, he found himself smiling privately in appreciation of what once was. It had been a peculiar week for him, to say the least. He was unaccustomed to feeling uncomfortable in his job, and now he was walking on broken glass, wondering how exactly to tread in this new, reversed relationship. He had taught her everything she knew; now she was his boss. They had once been lovers; now she had made it clear that her leaving him in Paris was final.

"_There won't _be_ any 'off the job', Agent Gibbs."_ Her words rang through his mind as he waited for Jenny Shepard to answer his question.

"What would you _like_ to do me for, Jethro?" she asked, and it was the faintest trace of a slur in her words that made him finally turn to face her. When he did, he was surprised to see her standing on his basement steps in jeans and a tight green long-sleeved cotton t-shirt rather than her usual business suit. He was even more surprised to see, through the dim light of his basement, that her eyes were somewhat glazed and dull. Their eyes met for a long moment, and neither of them said a word. Finally, she broke his gaze and descended the stairs, graceful as always, her steps belying the intoxication apparent in her eyes.

She stopped when she reached the bottom, her hand still on the railing. He looked at her, taking her in. He hadn't seen her dressed quite so casually in six very long years, and he was surprised at the visceral reaction the sight evoked. The green shirt—of course she would have chosen green, his favorite color on her—contrasted beautifully with her pale skin and brought out the bright color of her eyes. It was just tight enough to draw his eye to the shape of her breasts, and his memory filled in the blanks.

Still, though, as good as she looked standing there, the question remained: why was she in his basement? "Why are you here, Jen?" he asked, not unkindly. "Bourbon?" he offered before she could answer his query.

"Mmm. Yes, please," she answered, moving toward him. He grabbed a second Mason jar and quickly poured it half-full of bourbon before handing it off to her. She took a long swallow and closed her eyes in pleasure as the liquid burned down her throat.

Gibbs watched her with a neutral look on his face. "How much have you had already?" he asked.

"Not enough," she said, meeting his gaze.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And how did you get here?"

She raised a delicate eyebrow. "Do I really strike you as the type to get behind the wheel after a few drinks?" He didn't answer. "I have a driver, you know," she clarified.

Gibbs nodded, satisfied.

Jenny watched him for a moment and continued. "Do you want to continue with the third degree or do you want me to answer your original question?" Gibbs spread his hands wordlessly in response, inviting her to continue.

Jen paused. The moment of truth was here, and she couldn't help but hesitate. Truth be told, the past week had proved much more difficult than she had anticipated. When she had told him no_ 'off the job,'_ she had meant it. The intervening days, however, had made her question both her judgment and resolve—not that she hadn't done plenty of that already in the past six years. Every time she caught his steely blue-eyed gaze, every time he walked past her and she smelled his shaving lotion trailing behind, every time she watched his masculine hands as they gripped a pen to fill out paperwork—she questioned herself. She had never quite reconciled with herself her decision to leave him—and in such a cowardly manner, no less—but when she had landed the Directorship of NCIS, she had almost—_almost_—convinced herself that her ambition was finally paying off.

Then came Jethro.

If she was being honest with herself—which she rarely was—she would have to admit that Jethro was the only man who had ever broken her. He was the only one who had ever wound his way into her heart, whether or not she had allowed to herself that it was true.

Gibbs stared at her, waiting. She took another long swallow of her bourbon and steeled her eyes on him. She allowed the bourbon to give her strength as she drew herself up with a confidence she did not feel and said in a deceptively steady voice, "I am here, Jethro, because I've come to realize that sometimes…when a person does what she thinks is best for herself…" she trailed off and looked down toward the floor before regaining her courage. She looked back up and met his eyes once again before finishing, "it turns out that it's not the best thing at all." Her face burned as she stubbornly held his gaze, and he saw what was written in her eyes: _Paris. The letter._

He bent his head under the weight of her words, knowing that her vague statement was probably the closest he would get to an apology or outright acknowledgement of regret.

He could imagine what this—coming here like this, drunk and vulnerable—must have cost her, but the memory of the agony he'd suffered after she had rejected him was too vivid, too strong, for him to simply let her waltz back into his life without a thought. He had suffered—mightily and interminably—as the result of her actions,

"So, what?" he snapped, more harshly than he intended. "You finally made Director, so now you think you're going to have your cake and eat it, too?" He expected her to turn and leave at his words, but she surprised him by lowering her face, eyes flashing with muted pain as she looked down. He turned away, reaching for his bourbon once again. Her next words were unexpected.

"We all make mistakes, Jethro," she said quietly. "Even me."

He spun to face her, anger flashing in his eyes. "Yeah, Jen. We all make mistakes. But believe it or not, your biggest mistake _wasn't_ that you left. It was that you were too much of a coward to actually _tell_ me you were leaving." He paused. "Really, Jen? A Dear John letter in your coat pocket? " he spat in disgust.

Her eyes flickered with that soft pain once again, and it was almost enough to make him regret his words. Almost. She looked down and said in a voice that was so low he almost couldn't hear it, "You're right. It was cowardly." She looked back up at him then, and he saw naked regret on her face for the first time. "I couldn't face you. I knew what it would do to you, and I was too much of a coward to see your face."

"And how'd that work out for you, Jen?"

She dropped her head in defeat. "Not well," she admitted.

Jethro blew out a heavy sigh and turned his face up toward the ceiling tiredly. "So what are you sayin', Jen?"

She ground her teeth together as she willed her resolve not to falter. "I'm saying…" she paused. "I'm saying that I want to amend the statement I made on the stairs last week."

He looked at her, his face inscrutable. "No off the job."

"That's right," she nodded.

"You're drunk, Jen," he noted evasively.

"Not that drunk," she countered.

"Drunk enough," he returned.

She narrowed her eyes at him and her expression changed. "Fine," she said sharply. "I'll leave you to your boat. I know a rejection when I hear one." She turned smartly on her heel, intent on returning home to drown her mortification in bourbon.

He reached out and caught her waist as she turned, gently pulling her back against him. The tension between their bodies was palpable as he leaned down and whispered around the back of her head into her ear, "That wasn't a rejection, Jen." He swallowed hard as the smell of her perfume overwhelmed him, and he willed himself not to kiss her neck even as he pulled her tightly back, relishing the feel of her body against his once more. She shivered at the feel of his hand wrapped tightly around her waist and his breath on her neck and in her ear. He continued, "But I need to hear it when you're sober." He released her then, and she turned to face him, eyes immutable.

She gave a small, mirthless laugh. "So you're trying to protect me, then," she said flatly.

"S'not you I'm tryin' to protect, Jen," he said with meaning, before turning back to his work bench and resuming his former position, leaning heavily on his hands, with his head hanging down.

Her heart ached at the inference, and she silently kicked herself for coming here drunk and giving him reason to doubt the veracity of her words. She was done hurting him. She stepped up behind him and placed her hands at his waist, squeezing gently. "Fair enough," she murmured. "We'll talk tomorrow then."

She turned on her heel and exited his basement, leaving Gibbs standing at his workbench staring into his Mason jar of bourbon.

**A/N: I chose Beautiful as Jen's perfume because it is my all-time favorite, but alas, I cannot wear it, as it smells like sewer water on me. So sad. It smells amazing, though.**


	2. Chapter 2

"_Memories, imagination, old sentiments, and associations are more readily reached through the sense of smell than through any other channel." –Oliver Wendell Holmes__  
_

Tony DiNozzo was more than a little surprised when his boss approached the bullpen the next morning with not one, but two grande cups of Starbucks in his hands. He sank into his seat, placing the second cup on his desk as he tipped the first one up, drinking deeply. "Who's the extra for, Boss?" DiNozzo asked hopefully.

Gibbs glared over the top of his cup at him and barked, "Me," causing DiNozzo to look chagrined as he turned back to his paperwork. Gibbs didn't care. He was exhausted and had a headache. After Jenny had gone, his mind had been whirling, and as a result, he'd gone heavy on the bourbon and light on the sleep. It was going to be a long day.

He was nearly finished with the second cup of coffee when the cause of his weariness entered the bullpen a few minutes later. She approached his desk and tapped her nails on it as she spoke to him.

"You wanted to speak to me this morning, Agent Gibbs?" she said with meaning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs caught Tony sitting up a little straighter as he eavesdropped on the conversation, and he shot his senior agent a Look, making him squirm. "Conference room," he muttered to Jenny, gesturing with his head toward the elevator. Jenny nodded demurely and followed him. When the steel doors opened, he gestured for her to enter first. He followed and slapped the emergency stop button as soon as the doors slid closed behind them. He turned to her as the lights dimmed, waiting. She leaned back against the opposite wall of the elevator, looking at him, serious. He waited for her to speak.

"I'm sober now."

"And?"

Jenny smirked. He was going to make her say it. Fine, she owed him that much. "And I meant what I said last night," she said slowly and deliberately. He just stared at her impassively. She rolled her eyes and sighed. He was being a bastard and he knew it. "I'd like to amend my previous statement about there not being any 'off the job,' Agent Gibbs," she said in exasperation. He continued to stare at her and her exasperation faded away into something more serious. She owed him more than a sarcastic rehashing of what she'd already said and it would be insulting him to pretend otherwise. She closed her eyes for a moment, considering that, before looking back up at him. "It wasn't worth it," she murmured softly. "And I know that now." She didn't have to elaborate; he knew exactly what she was saying.

Gibbs looked at her, his eyes enigmatic. Slowly, he crossed the length of the elevator and placed his hands on either side of her, leaning on the rail at her waist. Her heart sped up as he leaned in, slowly, until his lips were only centimeters from hers. Her breathing hitched as his breath washed over her and she fought the urge to close her eyes in pleasure at the sweet familiarity. He stared into her eyes as he said, "Not even a little bit, Madame Director?" His voice was not unkind, and she read it for what it was: an attempt to gauge the sincerity of her intentions.

She held his gaze as she answered him, evenly. "All of the money, power, and prestige in the world mean little when you have no one to come home to at night," she said, laying herself bare before him. "I didn't understand that six years ago."

Gibbs fought the urge to close the small distance between their lips. Instead, he leaned down and brushed his lips against her jaw line as he bent to her left ear.

"Ok," he breathed. "That's all I needed to hear."

She closed her eyes in protest as he straightened, stepping back to put a little space between them.

He turned and unceremoniously smacked the emergency stop switch once more. As the lights flashed on and the elevator began to move, he turned toward the doors and said, simply, "I'll stop by tonight, then." Then the steel doors opened and he was gone, leaving Jenny to lean back against the wall for support, wondering vaguely who was running this show.

----------

That afternoon, Gibbs left the office on time, for once, and went by his house long enough to change into jeans before picking up a bottle of wine and heading to Jenny's.

When Jenny opened the door, he was pleased to see that she had ditched the pristine business suit in favor of a crisp sage green oxford shirt and jeans. He was surprised to note that she was barefooted and he was struck anew, though he shouldn't have been, at how petite she really was.

"Wine, Jethro?" she queried with a grin.

"Didn't want to show up empty-handed."

"And why not bourbon?" she asked, stepping aside to admit him.

"Thought it might be best to lay off the hard stuff," he replied easily, hoping she would hear what he wasn't saying—that he didn't want a judgment-impaired state to lead either of them to do something they might later regret. Jenny simply nodded as she led him to her kitchen, gesturing to a seat at the counter of the marble bar as she continued chopping vegetables.

"It's Noemi's night off, so I thought I'd throw something together," she said over her shoulder.

"Since when do you cook?" he asked.

"Oh, I have lots of hidden talents, Jethro," she answered suggestively.

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Instead, he said, "What are you making?"

"Stir fry?" she replied, asking him with her tone if that was all right with him. He nodded in response, and she turned back to the cutting board before the thought occurred to her to open the wine. She reached for two wine glasses and a corkscrew, which she handed to Jethro. "Pour?" she asked.

He picked up the corkscrew and she continued chopping the peppers in front of her. He found himself preoccupied with his view as he readied the wine. Her Oxford shirt was fitted and showcased her small waist, and the sight of her ass in those jeans had his mouth practically watering. She had worn her hair pulled up at work that day, but it was now tied back in a sleek ponytail, flowing thick and straight down her back. His thoughts began to wander into dangerous territory. He could remember exactly how her skin felt beneath his hands; would it still feel the same way? Would she still sigh and allow her eyes to flutter closed as he gripped her ribcage firmly? He allowed muscle memory to take over at that point, and he found himself remembering, down to the most minute detail, exactly what it felt like, making love to her. And out of nowhere, the realization that he was desperate to do it again began to war with his desire to move cautiously.

He stood silently, carrying her glass of wine, and went to stand behind her. He reached around her with his right hand, placing the glass of merlot on the counter in front of her while he placed his left on her waist, just north of her hipbone, and squeezed firmly. Her hands stilled and he saw her eyes drift close as he brought his face around the side of her head and placed his lips against her neck. He could feel her pulse begin to pick up beneath his mouth as he breathed her in and she leaned back against him. His other hand moved to her right hip and slid up to grasp her ribs firmly, the tips of his fingers flirting with the underside of her breast. He snaked his tongue out to taste her skin and she swallowed a moan at the moist heat on her neck.

Carefully, with disciplined restraint, he withdrew himself from her. "Your merlot, Jen," he whispered in a husky voice as he straightened behind her.

She swallowed hard, regaining her composure. "Thank you, Jethro," she whispered back.

He squeezed her hips with both hands and released her, moving back to the bar. He picked up his own wine glass and drank deeply, seeking the steadying comfort of the alcohol. He was losing the battle with the part of him that wanted to take things slowly. Truth be told, he wanted to skip dinner and go right to dessert—and the dessert that he had in mind consisted mostly of Jenny underneath him, moaning his name in ecstasy.

He was somewhat satisfied to see that her hands shook—just a bit—as she finished chopping the peppers and slid them from the cutting board, adding them to the vegetables already piled into the wok situated on the stove. She seemed to take a deep breath as she turned the burner up, allowing the vegetables to heat. He watched her over the rim of his wine glass as she moved to the fridge, pulling out a plate with strips of steak on it. She turned to him, smiling coyly, her face composed now. "I know you like your steak practically still breathing, Jethro, but you'll have to settle for medium tonight." She grinned and he felt himself grinning back before he realized it. He focused on her delicate, thin fingers as she added the steak to the wok and watched it begin to simmer.

His eyes snapped up when she abruptly turned to him, holding her wine glass out. Taking the hint, he rose and expertly refilled her glass, as well as her own, draining the bottle. His eyes bored into hers as he wordlessly held his glass out, and as she clinked her own glass gently against his, he could have sworn that neither of them was breathing. They held their glasses together for a moment, in the toast-that-wasn't-a-toast, and finally Jen slowly withdrew her glass and took a sip, her eyes never leaving Jethro's.

They remained in a comfortable silence until the stir fry was finished to Jenny's satisfaction. She portioned out the food onto two plates, added chopsticks, and looked once toward the dining room before changing her mind and seating herself directly next to him at the bar, her thigh touching his. She slid his plate toward him silently, a small smile playing on her lips. She looked straight ahead as she grasped a piece of steak between her chopsticks and lifted it to her mouth. Jethro took her cue and began his own meal, enjoying the thick sexual tension lingering in the silent kitchen. He chewed and swallowed, cutting right to the chase. "So what's gonna happen when we're finished eating, Jen?"

She smiled, still staring straight ahead. "Well…" she drawled in a throaty voice. "I suppose we could curl up and watch a movie, or" she turned to him now, looking him straight in the eye, "we could just skip the bullshit and go right upstairs, where I'm fairly certain we both want to be." She lifted an eyebrow, asking his thoughts on the matter.

He nodded once, slowly. "And, uh, this," he gestured back and forth between them with his chopsticks, "_us,_" he corrected, "this is going to be a regular thing?"

"Unless you'd rather it not be," she said slowly.

He gave her a disparaging look, ignoring her statement. "Have you given any thought to exactly how this is going to work?" he asked curiously, popping another bite of stir fry into his mouth.

"Yes. I've given it a lot of thought, actually."

"Come to any conclusions?"

"Yes. I've concluded that I have absolutely no idea how this is going to work." She smiled softly. "And that I don't really care."

Jethro stopped chewing at her unexpected words and stared at her, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He put down his chopsticks and wordlessly reached toward her, taking her hand. Squeezing gently, he watched with satisfaction as her smile grew wider.

"Finish your dinner, Jethro," she whispered, "or you don't get dessert."

He released her hand, eyes twinkling, and picked up his chopsticks again, intent on putting an end to dinner as quickly as possible.

**A/N: Apologies for the long delay in getting a second chapter posted. Hopefully the third (and mostly likely, final) chapter won't be so long in coming!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Once again I find myself in the position of apologizing for an excessively long delay in updating. Allow me to explain: about six weeks ago, my husband (an I.T. director for a local group of companies) got the very unexpected news that the company had sold out and he would be losing his job. As my husband is the primary breadwinner for our family (I teach high school more for the enjoyment of it than the paycheck), this was a rather devastating blow to our family. Ergo, I spent the next few weeks in a pretty big funk, and writing was the last thing from my mind. It took me a while to get back into the groove, so to speak, and for that, I apologize. But I didn't want to force myself to try to write when my mind clearly wasn't in it. Please accept my apologies. So, if anyone is still with me, I now present to you the final chapter of this little Jibbs-fest.**

"_The best smell in the world is that man that you love." –Jennifer Aniston_

Once she had gotten it out into the open—made it clear that she would be taking him directly upstairs after dinner, Jennifer Shepard seemed to derive a certain pleasure in drawing out the aforementioned meal just a little too long. She twirled her food lazily around her chopsticks before grasping it and placing it in her mouth, and Jethro was struck by the pure sensuality she embodied as she closed her supple lips around each bite of food. She chewed slowly, savoring the taste of the meat and vegetables on her tongue, and then swallowed, smirking ever so slightly as she felt his eyes upon her. Wordlessly, she reached for her wine, inhaling deeply as she brought the glass to her lips. Now that the pressure was off as far as she was concerned, she allowed her senses free reign as she enjoyed her dinner with him. She relished the vivid bouquet of the wine on her tongue, she enjoyed the scent of the stir-fry on her plate, and she _certainly_ enjoyed the feel of the firm hand that had not-so-subtly rested itself upon her thigh.

She popped the last piece of meat in her mouth and smirked at the anticipation she could feel emanating from him. He was doing a poor job of hiding his eagerness, and the hunger that rolled off of him in waves gave her some small feeling of control. She stood, pushing her stool back, and picked up her own plate, along with his, a smirk on her face. "I had prepared a cheesecake," she said in a sultry voice, "but I have a feeling that's not quite the dessert you had in mind, mmm?" She said this last with a raise of her eyebrow and eyes full of mirth, and she didn't miss the flash of poorly restrained desire that crossed through his eyes at her words. She could still read him like a book; that much was comforting.

She placed the dishes in the sink and turned to face him, placing her hands lazily on the counter to her back. "I'm going upstairs to freshen up, Jethro. If you'll just give me a few moments, I'd love to have some company," she said pointedly. She pushed off the counter and moved breezily past him, noting the satisfied smirk upon his face as she passed him. She didn't bother to suppress her own smirk as she left the kitchen and ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

Once she entered her sanctuary, she disrobed quickly and took the quickest of showers. Stepping out, she moved to her closet and selected an aquamarine chemise with matching thong that she knew he would love. She took stock of herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She looked good. She knew from experience that he loved when she wore her red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and as for the rest—well, she had changed very little from their time together six years prior, so she assumed he would be pleased with what she had to offer.

She stepped from the bathroom into the bedroom and was not at all surprised to find him brazenly pushing open her bedroom door at the same time.

"Why bother, Jen?" he asked mildly, though the fire in his eyes belied the calm tone in his voice. "It's just gonna end up in a heap on the floor," he continued.

"Mmm," she said blandly. "Thought I'd give you something interesting to look at before you rip it off," she said with a shrug.

"Don't need it," he said shortly. "Got all I need already," he murmured in his gravelly voice, and she swore she felt her stomach flutter at his words.

"Then have it," she said, hoping he didn't hear the hitch in her voice or the breathlessness behind her words.

And just as she had assumed he would, he took control—just like that. He stepped forward, closing her bedroom door firmly behind him, his strong jaw tightening at the sight before him. He reached out, confidently, boldly, and caressed her face with his calloused hand, placing his other hand at her hip and drawing her toward him. He didn't hesitate, pulling her in and kissing her deeply, his lips quickening at the gasp he drew from her. She felt him smile gently, and his tongue probed her lips; she opened her mouth willingly and drew his tongue in. She tasted him eagerly, wondering if he still tasted like six years ago. It surprised her not in the least to find that he did. Nor did it surprise her to find that his hands on her still felt the same. He grasped her breasts eagerly, without restraint—pushing his hips against hers—and it felt like yesterday—only so much more. She gasped as one hand moved down and he hooked a finger into her thong where it rested over her hip. He twisted his finger into the material and gripped her hip firmly as he began pushing her back toward her bed, never breaking their kiss. She grasped the front of his polo shirt needily, desperately, pulling him toward her even as he pushed her backwards. When the backs of her legs hit the bed, she needed no encouragement to sink down, pulling him with her. She was gasping into his kisses, and the ravenous hunger with which they were finally giving in to their desires was almost alarming in its intensity.

And then he was breaking their kiss, and the small sound of protest she was about to make died on her lips when he pushed her chemise up roughly and began dropping frenzied kisses onto her belly and ribs. She sucked in a shaking breath and wondered, out of nowhere, if he could hear what he was _doing_ to her heart. She tangled her hands into his silver hair as his lips moved up her belly and her mind thundered to a thousand different places, not the least of which was the thought that it had been a long time since a man had touched her this way—six years, to be precise. Naturally, she'd had sexual encounters since she had last been with Jethro, but he was—right now—reminding her with his lips and his hands why she had walked away from every single one of those encounters feeling so much less than satisfied. The fact was, he was the most singlehandedly _gifted_ lover she had ever had…but it was so much more than that, too.

He was visceral.

There was a raw, animal, instinctive edge to his lovemaking that drove her wild. He was gentle when he needed to be, and rough when she wanted him to be, but he was always, _always_ as passionate a lover as any she'd ever had. He had never—even once—half-assed it with her, and that was more than she could say for any other man she'd ever slept with more than once.

She was abruptly pulled from her thoughts as Jethro yanked her chemise over her head, and she heard the low rip of tearing satin as he divested her of it. She didn't care. He met her eyes for only a moment before his gaze raked down her naked torso, followed shortly by his lips. Jen gasped as his mouth closed firmly over a taut nipple, sucking hard. His hands were gripping her waist firmly, possessively, and the realization only aroused her more.

Her eyes slid from his face only for her to realize that he was still fully dressed. Unacceptable.

She unceremoniously yanked his shirt from his pants and proceeded to tug both polo and t-shirt over his head, forcing him to remove himself from her nipple, if only for an instant. As soon as the shirt cleared his head, he was back at work, seemingly oblivious to his state of undress, or lack thereof. Jenny, for her part, continued on her mission, fumbling blindly at his belt buckle for a moment before his hands stilled hers, and he unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped himself in the merest moment following. She shoved his pants down, and he now obliged her, leaning forward to shuck them off in the general direction of the end of the bed. Sitting back up, he leaned back in his position straddling her, and drew his hands lovingly, hungrily down her sides as he drank her in. He stopped at her hips and fingered the edges of her thong gently. A tiny, crooked smile graced the corner of his mouth as he once again wrapped the material around his finger, and—this time—began to tug it down, exposing her fully to him at last. Jenny forced herself to lie still, rather than launching the full-scale assault that she very much desired. He moved off of her in order to slide her panties off, and he tossed them aside carelessly before pushing his own underwear off hurriedly.

He leaned back down on her and gripped the back of her neck with his right hand, kissing her deeply as he pressed himself against her. Jenny kissed him back just as deeply as she sought him out with her hand. Finding him, she gripped him firmly, stroking forward, and was rewarded with a small shudder of air against her lips. She luxuriated in the scent of his breath in her mouth as well as the feel of him in her hand.

"God, Jen," he muttered roughly as he buried his head in her neck, breathing in deeply. "You smell just the same."

She scraped her free hand up his back to his neck, pulling him even closer in to her. "So do you," she panted, taking his earlobe into her mouth eagerly.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, moving against each other, reminiscing, readjusting, until Jen suddenly couldn't stand it anymore. "Now," she commanded, positioning him between her legs. He gave one push, and he was inside of her, and they were gasping against each other desperately, yearning for release, but both all too unwilling to let it end so quickly. He pulled himself up on an elbow, leaning over her, oozing testosterone as he subtly exerted his masculine authority, and pressed his lips against hers fiercely as he began to move within her. She responded perfectly to his every movement, and it took them no time at all to find their rhythm. Grinding against him, Jenny wondered frantically inside her head if they had they ever really been apart, or if the past six years had all been some horrible nightmare. This was too good, too easy, too natural for it to have been so long since he'd touched her last.

"You with me, Jen?" he whispered in his calloused voice as he felt the pressure build. She barely had time to nod in response before she felt herself coming absolutely undone beneath him.

She managed a single, _"Yes… Jethro,"_ before words failed her and she was reduced to a series of unintelligible moans and gasps. He hung on for as long as he could, pushing her through, before becoming overwhelmed by the sensations she was creating and giving up the fight.

He added a murmured, "God, Jen," as he closed his eyes and buried his head in her neck, kissing the skin there as he allowed the orgasm to wash over him. Memories lied—He really _had_ forgotten just how damn good this felt with her.

When it was over, neither of them could bear to move for a moment. Jethro remained atop her, his face pressed firmly against her neck, dropping tiny kisses upon the skin beneath his lips. Jen had one hand on the back of his neck and the other gripping his hip, as though afraid he would disappear if she released him. After a moment, however, she did release him, and he rolled slowly to the side, never quite breaking contact with her skin.

He pulled her from her back to her side, drawing his hand up her torso, brushing her breast sensuously before he gripped her jaw and kissed her deeply. He felt drowsy and sated, but he wanted to make sure she knew she wasn't just some itch that had to be scratched. She returned his kiss and leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

"Can you separate it out, Jethro?" she asked thoughtfully. "Leave _us_ at home and work at work?"

He snorted. She knew him better than that. "I know, I know—look, it's not that it won't ever get complicated," she continued, "or that lines won't ever get blurred, but I think if we try—" he cut her off by pressing his mouth against hers and tasting her eagerly as he ran his fingers up into the messy remnants of her ponytail.

"Shut up, Jen," he said, pulling away. "We'll make it work."

She smiled then—a genuine, shining Jennifer Shepard smile—and said, "Good, then. I'm glad I didn't buy that godforsaken bottle of Beautiful for nothing. I haven't worn it since Paris."


End file.
